


Painting My Heart

by Syrenslure



Category: Roswell (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrenslure/pseuds/Syrenslure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Loving would be easy if your colors were like my dreams."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Roswell fic, and has been dancing around my head for a while. I hope you enjoy.  
>  Dedication: For all the members of the Polar Playground message board, who have patiently stood by me and encouraged me as this slowly came together. And for the members of Polar Attraction who inspired me to finish it over a year later.

Prologue:

crimson. cerulean. copper.

He dreamed in color. Bright splashes covered the canvas of his mind. Swirling, streaking, staining all of his thoughts and fantasies in a Picasso and Pollack inspired masterpiece.

The canvas shifted, rending itself, tearing through the barriers of his subconscious. She was born from those colors, fully formed like a butterfly newly emerged. The honeyed amber of her skin, glistening with her newly formed passion. The raw umber of her eyes, crimson lips and copper thighs, she was perfection.

She reached out to him and they were kissing, tumbling, twisting, turning, touching, tasting. It was too much. It wasn't nearly enough. She wasn't his.

"What the hell?" he sat up in bed, stirring himself from the etchings of his mind. He rubbed his hand across his eyes and then back through his dark hair. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat, despite the cool spring night.

He had long ago accepted that he would occasionally dream about her. He didn't see it as disloyal to Max or disrespectful to her. He was a teenage boy and she was a beautiful girl, but this was the third night in a row. The dreams were different, more vivid, more real.

black. white.

Her dreams were a washed out monotone. Even here, there were few shades of gray. Max was always on one side. She was on the other. There was no sound.

She stood surrounded by the bright pale light. Endless emptiness surrounded her, cut only by a mirroring swath of nothingness.

That was where Max stood. Deep in shadows, almost obscured, he stood with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward slightly. He never moved, never spoke, never looked at her. They just stood on opposite sides of an invisible line.

Sometimes, she would try to scream and jump and attract his attention, but nothing would change. She used to think that she had but to cross that line and her world would explode in color. True love would prevail in festive color and song, like they had jumped through a chalk painting with her fairy godmother. Now, she knew that wasn't true, because the line didn't exist. There was no gray area, only black and white with the two of them on opposite sides. The first time she realized that, the dream began to change.

At first it was just a sound was in the distance, like the roar of a waterfall. It slowly grew louder and closer, building up. It wasn't natural, but metallic, the mechanized whine of a machine.

Then it was the hint of color in the distance. A touch of sunset kissed the far horizon. Her side grew brighter still, Max's darker.

A few nights ago the color was almost close enough to touch. The buzzing grew, until she could see that it was Michael on his motorcycle. He rode down the line between her and Max and infused her life with color.

Neither of them spoke. He merely held out his hand and lifted her behind him onto the motorcycle. They rode off into the sunset.

pink. purple. blue.

**********  
Chapter 1

He had once read somewhere that the act of committing an idea to paper could exorcise it from your mind. There was supposed to be a catharsis in translating the thought, the image, from your brain, through your hand to the paper.

It hadn't helped yet.

At first, it was just the idea that if he could draw her - examine the lines and curves, the play of light and shadow that was her, then he could understand why Max was so drawn to her, so committed to the exception of all else. Then, he drew to understand her appearance in his dreams, to drive the demon from his brain, so that he could close his eyes and not see her there. All Michael had succeeded in doing was to draw himself deeper into her web.

He had books full of nothing but her, image after image. None of them did her justice. Not one of them captured her essence, or had exorcised her hold on his mind. He could barely eat. He couldn't sleep without dreaming of her. He couldn't concentrate. All he could do is draw. He recognized his obsession.

He had almost set fire to the Crashdown earlier that night, while he and Liz were alone, closing. He had been drawing her in his mind, instead of minding the hot grill. That was what had finally led him here, sitting outside her window in the middle of the night, sketching her as she slept.

He stayed there through the night, stopping only when she started to stir. It was only then did Michael realize that the sun had long since risen. He rubbed his tired eyes. He was supposed to open the cafe today. He hated these turn-around shifts, infrequent as they may be, because they left little time for sleep. Not that he slept much lately, anyway. Now, he no longer had time to go home and change, or even pretend to sleep. Instead, he quietly made his way down the fire escape, moving quickly in hope that Liz wouldn't see him.

He walked into the Crashdown and shoved his notebook into his locker. He pulled out his apron and bandana and took a deep breath. Michael told himself to get his damn head on straight; it was time to start his day.

**********  
Chapter 2

Liz woke slowly, clinging to the fragments of her dream. "Michael," she spoke softly, his name a wish on her lips. The dream was so real, that she could almost feel him near her. She shook head slightly to clear it and sighed. It was time to begin her day, her boring, drab, monotone day.

She searched through her closet, wanting something different. She needed some splash of color, something vibrant that screamed out, "I'm here Notice me!" In the end she settled on a cranberry top and faded jeans. It was not the soft pastels she normally wore, but not too outrageous either. Whatever may be going on in her dreams, she wasn't quite confident enough to really wear "notice me" clothes. Liz had never realized that she would always be seen anyway, for the beauty that shone from her, brighter than any wardrobe choice she might make.

She went downstairs to meet her dad. They were going to go over the books and inventory today for their "first Saturday of the month" date. It had been a ritual between them since before she was old enough to actually help with the books, and was more distracting than helpful as she tried to count the large boxes.

She stopped in the restaurant to gather a cup of coffee for her dad and a cherry coke for herself. She noticed Michael as soon as she walked into the room, and blushed deeply as she remembered her vivid dreams of being saved by him, and more. He looked up and saw her and their eyes locked. It was as if they were frozen outside of time itself.

"Michael... Michael... Earth calling Michael, come-in Michael... hey butthead," Maria's voice broke through their fog, making it obvious that she had been trying to get Michael's attention. It was his turn to blush, as he turned to fill the orders she had left for him.

They resumed their good-natured bickering, and Liz smiled and shook her head at them. She knew that Maria still harbored a small flame for her ex, but they had developed an easy-going (and for those around them, often exasperating) friendship in the last few months. Maria had even started dating again. Liz was happy for her, and couldn't keep her dad waiting any longer, watching the crazy pair's antics.

Some time later, her dad had kissed her on the cheek and told her to go have some fun. He was going to go spend some quality time with the other special lady in his life, his wife. Liz laughed and left the office. She didn't have anything to do, really, so she decided to go clean the break room.

"Uhhh, people are such slobs," was her thought as she entered the back room where the employees stored their personal belongings and hung out during their downtime. Unlike the nightly cleaning of the main restaurant, cleaning this room was reserved for punishment detail, whoever couldn't get out of it, or Liz when she was feeling generous, like today.

She was picking up trash and throwing it into a nearby garbage can when she noticed a large piece of paper sticking out of the bottom of a locker. It looked to be a drawing of some kind. She tugged on it to get a better look. When she did, the ill-secured door of the locker swung open, showering her with papers and a few pieces of clothing.

She quickly realized that the locker was Michael's and that she shouldn't be invading his space, but she stood transfixed by the image staring back at her. It was of herself, sitting on the lawn at lunch, her head thrown back in laughter. It was beautiful. She shoved the other stuff back into the locker, but picked up the sketchbook and moved over to the couch, to get comfortable and look through the other drawings.

**********  
Chapter 3

Liz jumped, startled when Michael pushed through the door to the break room. He knew she was there, but didn't have the energy to really acknowledge her. He went straight to his locker to get his things and then go home and crash. Instead, he was momentarily confused and stood there scratching his eyebrow, trying to figure out what was going on. That's when he turned and really looked at Liz.

She was staring at him and his drawings were spread out over her lap and the couch where she sat indian style among them. She looked guilty and began gathering them up. Not knowing what else to do, he got pissed.

"How dare she invade my privacy like that," he thought, not wanting to think about the fact that some of the drawings were also an invasion of hers. Instead, he exploded.

"What are you doing? How the hell did you get those? Why can't you mind your own business? You are always involved with stuff that has nothing to do with you."

"I - it was an accident. I was just...."

"Just what? God! You can't leave well enough alone. You always have to know what's going on, what everyone is doing. What, is this payback? I read your journal, so you think it gives you the right to go through my stuff."

"Look, Michael, I was just cleaning up and this stuff fell out of your locker. It has nothing to do with me? Look at them. Every one of these is about me. I just wanted to know why.

"No, you know what I don't even care why. I couldn't help it. They were all just so beautiful. You are so talented, and you keep all of this locked up in some private little place, so that no one can get it; no one can ever see the real you."

"That's my business. Little Miss Perfect Parker, you can't fix everything. You can't take care of everyone. You can't even take care of yourself. You want to see me, well, I see you. And let me tell you Liz, it's not all pretty pictures. Is it?

Stay away from me and stay out of my business, Liz. We'll both be a lot happier that way." He grabbed the sketchbook out of her hands and left, slamming the door behind him.

She wanted to cry. It had gone so terribly wrong. She just wanted to... "What, Liz, what did you want?" she asked herself. "I don't know," she admitted, and it felt like her heart was breaking. "I don't know."

A single tear slid down her face, where a piece of paper on the floor caught her eye. It was one of Michael's sketches of her. She picked it up and hugged it to her chest, rocking back and forth. She stayed there until she remembered that Maria's shift was ending soon, and she had to relieve her for the rest of the afternoon rush.

She stood up, wiped her face and put the picture in her locker. She pulled out her spare uniform and got ready for her shift, resolving to think about it later. Right now, it was time to go to work.

**********

Chapter 4

Liz tossed and turned all night. Her dreams were dark, haunted. She felt like a pale shadow of herself, floating invisibly through her life.

She went to school and walked down the hallway toward class. She felt so small with her books hugged tightly to her chest. The cacophony of sound seemed to be muted and far away, as if she were wrapped in cotton gauze. People rushed by her on either side, not seeing, not caring. She might as well have not existed.

She walked past Isabel's locker, and all of her friends were there. Isabel and Alex, Max and Tess, Maria and Kyle. They were laughing and joking, having a fun, vibrant time. Even they didn't really see her.

Then there was Michael. She could still feel her earlier hurt and anger, but she couldn't hold onto it. He seemed as much an outsider as she was in this world. She could see him watching her through the open door of the art room at the end of the hall. He was working at a large easel.

Her friends walked off in the opposite direction, as the warning bell rang. She stood there as they brushed past her. Then, she decided to go to him.

Liz walked down the long corridor and into the room. Michael was the only one there. He looked up again, and smiled at her, but continued working.

She had to see what he was working on. "What did he see that no one else could?" She walked up to the easel to find out.

He stepped back for a moment to admire his work and she moved in. She stood in front of another drawing of herself. She could barely recognize it. It was beautiful. It was unreal.

Slowly, she lifted her hand to the image and began tracing its lines and curves, feeling its shadows. As she did this, a warm glow sufficed her entire being and she seemed to come to life. Color seeped into her skin, wicked up from the black and white portrait before her.

She felt Michael step up behind her. He wrapped her in his arms and hugged her close to him. He bent a little to rest his head on her shoulder.

He whispered her name in her ear. "Liz." It was like a caress. She turned her head toward him and they were so close. Their lips met chastely.

She gasped softly and turned in his arms. Liz wrapped her arms around Michael's neck to pull him closer still and deepen the kiss. She had never felt such passion before. She felt alive.

She awoke with a gasp. She was drenched in sweat and her sheets were tangled at the end of the bed. Sunlight streamed into the room. She felt as if she were aglow with the soft light and feelings she wasn't ready to but a name to.

She quickly showered and dressed. There was only one thought in her mind this morning. She had to see Michael. She had to know what was going on. How could he affect her this way?

She grabbed his drawing from the bedside table, where she put it before drifting off to sleep last night. She was going to go find out.

**********

Chapter 5

Liz walked quickly to Michael's apartment, not registering anything of her surroundings on the way there. Luckily, it was early Sunday morning and there was no one else around to notice her uncharacteristic behavior. A single thought obsessed her mind; everything else faded into a muted background. "Michael."

She banged on his door with a strength she barely knew she possessed. She banged over and over, waiting for an answer. A neighbor, who was getting ready for church, stuck his head out and gave her a dirty look Normally, that would have turned her crimson in embarrassment and sent her scurrying for cover. Yet, she didn't stop. She let out the breath she didn't know she was holding when she heard his husky rumble to, "Hold your horses, dammit. I'm coming."

Michael continued to mutter to himself as he flung open the door. He had been expecting Max, or somebody, anybody other than Liz; that was obvious from his expression. His gruff, "What do you want?" was interrupted, as she brazenly pushed past him into the apartment.

"Just do this," she told herself, willing her courage not to fail. "You can do this. You can fall apart into a million little not-even-an-alien-can-save-me pieces later. Just do it." She barely realized the irony that she hoped an alien would save her, that maybe Michael could save her from herself.

"Make yourself at home," Michael's sarcastic comment brought her back to the present out of her self-induced daze.

She turned to him holding the sketch in front of her like a shield. "Is this how you see me?" she blurted out.

Michael stared at her and brought his hand up to rub his tired eyes and push back his sleep-tousled hair. He didn't know what to say. He was completely confused, barely awake and afraid to make a move in case she ran away like a skittish colt.

He took a deep breath and sighed, unable to make sense of words, trying to reconcile the image before him with the ephemeral one that still lingered in his sleep-addled brain. God, but she was gorgeous.

"Why did you draw all those pictures of me? What am I to you?"

"I don't know. Ok, I don't know. What do you want, Liz? What are you doing here? They're just drawings. They aren't even that good.

"I won't do it again, ok?" he lied to her, knowing that even now his fingers were itching to reveal her in stark black and white, brilliant jewel tones, hazy pastels smearing his hands as if covering him in her essence.

"They're beautiful."

"You're beautiful," he responded, still caught in the gossamer threads of fantasy. He looked startled by his own admission.

"Is this really me?" she started to ramble uncertainly. "Is this what you see? It can't be. I don't know how to be the woman you drew. She has my face, but she isn't me. I want it to be. I want to see what you see. Can you show me?"

She didn't know who was more shocked by her request, whose foundation was rocked more by the simple nod of his head. Who knows? Maybe this was just another dream, another stroke of fantasy, but it was one that she was determined to hold on to.

**********

Chapter 6

He was the first to speak as he looked down at himself, a faded rock band t-shirt and soft plaid boxers. "Can I get dressed, first?"

She laughed then. They both did. Color flooded back into her face, which had been pale with tension. "Please do," she said in a light, teasing manner. She couldn't believe that she was almost flirting with him.

When he returned from the bedroom, he had on jeans and another faded t-shirt. He didn't have a sketchpad or pencil with him. She was confused, but followed him blindly to the kitchen.

"Have a seat," he said with his back to her. He began pulling things out of the fridge. He put a pan on the stove and began scrambling eggs. He didn't talk and Liz was too stunned to know what to say. She just watched him as he prepared breakfast.

A little while later, Michael dropped a plate of eggs and toast onto the table in front of her. He straddled a chair opposite her to eat his own. He doused his eggs liberally with hot sauce and began shoveling them into his mouth, motioning with his fork for her to do the same.

She ate, a bit awed by the gusto with which he attacked the food. She realized that this was Michael. This was how he approached everything. She was in those sketches, but so was he. She was suddenly very hungry.

When they were finished, he dumped his plate into the sink and went to get some more milk. She carried her plate to the sink and began washing it, as she would at home. He looked at her strangely, then, lifted his shoulder in a shrug. He began to clean up too, tossing eggshells into the trash and putting the hot sauce and eggs back into the fridge. They worked in companionable silence.

When she was done, she stood there toying with the dishcloth, until he took it from her and threw it down in the sink. "Come on," he motioned and went into the living room.

He sat down on the couch and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. He folded his arms across his chest and watched her critically, as she sat primly across the room. "Are you always this uptight?" he drawled quietly.

She flinched, almost as if he had slapped her.

"Relax, breathe." He spoke slowly and quietly, as if she were a child. "Your virtue is safe with the big bad alien. I'm not that hard up, you know." The little voice inside his head told him that if she did know, she'd probably run out of here so fast his head would spin.

She was hurt until she realized that he was right. It was just Michael, and she was acting like a scared little princess. She frowned and her forehead wrinkled up in thought, but she followed his advice. She took a deep breath and relaxed.

It was the weirdest day she could remember having, except for the alien related ones. Which it was, but not really. At some point, she told herself to stop analyzing and just go with it. And she did. Then, it turned out to be one of the best days as well.

They had talked and laughed and had fun. He never did pull out his sketchpad, and they didn't talk about the drawings or her request, either. It wasn't until she was getting ready for bed that night that she realized something in her had shifted. Her perspective had changed and she didn't know what to make of it.

**********

Chapter 7

She dressed carefully for school the next day, but her mind was still on her time with Michael. She wore a white baby-doll tee with a glittery star on it that Isabel had given her for her birthday, but she had never worn before. She brushed her long hair until it shone and hung down around her shoulders, but pulled the sides back off of her face with a barrette. For a change she didn't feel like hiding, but didn't want to examine why or what it meant.

School that day passed by in a distracted blur. She kept thinking about Michael, his sketches, and her dreams that were becoming so weird and strangely erotic. She barely noticed the speculative looks Isabel and Maria were giving her. She didn't notice the way everyone seemed to stare at the newly emerging Liz. Twice teachers had called her on her zoning in class. She breathed a sigh of relief when the final bell rang.

She was putting away her books and straightening up her room when Michael knocked on her window, startling her. She went over and let him in, even though he could have done it himself.

He stood in the middle of the room, seeming larger than life, and looked around. She shifted nervously and waited for him to say something, much like she had the previous day. Instead, he walked over to her closet and began flipping through her clothes.

"No, no, no," he disregarded the items as he flipped through them. Occasionally he made a small moue of disgust and tore something off a hanger, tossing it onto the floor. Once or twice he would take an item out and hold it up toward her, before shaking his head and putting it back in the closet.

It felt so intimate to have him pawing through her things, as if he was undressing her instead of examining her wardrobe. Finally, he tossed her a deep rose colored sweater. It was lightweight with three-quarter length sleeves. It used to be one of her favorites and was well worn. She no longer wore it though, because her bra size had gone up a bit and she had gotten a little taller, leaving the sweater snug and short, barely reaching her waist. He also threw down an old, faded and ripped pair of jeans that she kept in the back of her closet.

He told her to get dressed and then went to sit on her bed. She felt slightly panicked, like her world was spinning out of control. She wondered what was going on, as he sat there idly flipping through her cd collection. She went into the bathroom to change.

She didn't see him release the breath he was holding, or the tension he tried to conceal, as it melted from his long frame. She didn't know that he had his own doubts that he had pushed her too far. By the time she was ready, he was composed and slightly awed by the trust she had placed in him. He was determined not to make her regret it.

**********  
Chapter 8

Michael climbed down her fire escape and waited for her. Liz went to tell her dad that she was going out with Michael. She kissed her dad on the cheek and he smiled telling her to be careful and be back by curfew. Liz assured him that she would.

She met Michael at his motorcycle and he handed her his helmet. She climbed on behind him and held on as he started the bike and headed out of town toward the desert. It was a freedom she had never known. She clung tightly to him, feeling the roar of the machine, the wind whipping by them. She swore she could almost feel his heartbeat racing along with hers. She had never felt so amazing, so exhilarated. She snuggled into his back in a silent "thank you" and she felt the bike swerve lightly under them.

He drove them out toward the caves, to a barren secluded area and stopped the motorcycle. He engaged the kickstand and looked out over the expanse. The stark beauty awed her once again. This place reminded her of Michael, and she realized that she was getting to see yet another side of him.

She stepped off the bike and removed the helmet. She swung her head and her hair floated around her, caught on a small breeze. Michael watched, mesmerized as she ran her fingers through the wind whipped strands. She had an innocent sensuality about her that she didn't recognize and would probably stumble over, as she did.

He dismounted and took his sketchpad and pencils out of his pack. He watched her as she looked around and explored the area. This was his favorite place to escape. He had never brought anyone here, needing something that was just his. Yet, he didn't feel resentful; she belonged.

There was nothing to distract him from her beauty. It was as if she were in her element. The harsh rocks and weather-beaten landscape were the perfect backdrop for her perfection, the indigo sky and golden sand highlighted her flaws. His fingers flew over the paper.

Liz had asked him for help, but it was she who was helping him. They talked, communicated and he had shared himself in ways he hadn't thought possible, or necessary before now. There was no pretense, no lies, and no secrets. It was raw and bare and unabashed brilliant color. He was finally finding that aspect, that essence that had eluded him in his previous drawings. It was there in bright, shining, clarity, like light scattered through a prism. You can only really appreciate the whole when you see all of its parts, all of the colors.

She just walked around and left him to sketch. She climbed and explored until the light faded and she got tired. Then, she sat down in front of him and played there in the sand until there was no more light to draw by and his hand was cramped.

Through it all they talked: a word or two here, a phrase there. They didn't try to fill the silence, just exchanged a unique honesty in a place where they were the only people who existed. Finally, he set his pad aside and just looked at her. She was watching him. His body heated up at the fire in her eyes.

"I want to paint you."

"Yes."

He nodded and they stood, brushing off the sand. They held hands as they walked back to the bike. They headed home.

**********

Chapter 9

The next few days were crazy. He had to work, or she did. Thursday they had the evening shift together. Friday night, Maria cornered her during one of their slow times. "What's up with you and Michael," she asked.

"What? Nothing."

"Whatever, chica. You guys are acting weird and I'm not the only one who has noticed Kyle saw you guys driving out of town the other night. Even Isabel has deigned to ask me what's up. So what *is* up?"

"Nothing, really. We're just friends."

Maria snorted. "Since when?"

"I don't know, a while. You don't have to worry Maria, really." Liz bit her bottom lip and worried about her friend. She didn't want Maria to get hurt.

"Is that what you think? No, Liz. I'm just looking out for you. What Michael and I had, it's so history. He's not exactly boyfriend material, Liz. Besides, what about Max?"

"Max? I've hardly talked to him in weeks. Besides, He's with Tess now."

"You've hardly talked to *anyone* in weeks. Well, except Michael. And since when has that stopped Max. He's sweet and all, but you know that he thinks of you as his personal property, signed and sealed with a weird little Czechoslovakian handprint. He is not going to like whatever is going down between you and Michael."

"Nothing is going on."

"Whatever you say." Maria shrugged. "But don't worry, nobody will hear it from me."

Liz just rolled her eyes and shook her head. She loved Maria; she really did, but sometimes she didn't know what got into her. There wasn't anything going on between her and Michael. Well, not really. They were friends. Good friends. Right?

She worried that back and forth in her head all night. She still had no answer when she headed upstairs.

She began to get ready for bed when she noticed something sitting on her pillow. It was a rolled up piece of sketch paper, tied with a torn piece of fabric for a bow. She untied it carefully and unrolled it. A piece of notebook paper fluttered onto the bed.

The picture was from the desert. She was standing on the edge of a small cliff, looking off into the distance. Her hair was dancing in the wind and the sun was setting. The moon and stars were barely visible.

She picked up the note and read it.

You wanted to see what I see. I can't tell you. I can only show you. I'm no good with words, but here are a few from someone who is much better than me. The first time I read this, I thought of you.

She walks in beauty, like the night  
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
And all that 's best of dark and bright  
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:  
Thus mellow'd to that tender light  
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.  
One shade the more, one ray the less,  
Had half impair'd the nameless grace  
Which waves in every raven tress,  
Or softly lightens o'er her face;  
Where thoughts serenely sweet express  
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,  
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,  
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,  
But tell of days in goodness spent,  
A mind at peace with all below,  
A heart whose love is innocent!  
\--- Lord Byron

Meet me tomorrow morning, my place. See what I see.  
\- Michael

She hugged the picture and his note to her and smiled. She placed his note inside her diary and placed the rolled up sketch on her bedside table. Then, she went to sleep and dreamed of Michael.

**********

Chapter 10

yellow. purple. orange.

The bell tinkled overhead as Michael stepped through the doors of the diner. It may have been what the Crashdown looked like in another era. The floors were red and white tile and the sunlight shone brightly through the windows over the red vinyl booths.

The other half of the cafe near the counter was cast in shadow as the day lengthened. Despite the bright colors, it appeared drab, old. Gone was the alien memorabilia and theme; old-fashioned meatloaf and grilled cheese sandwiches were advertised on the dusty chalkboard, instead of fanciful otherworldly cuisine. The young waitress was in a gray uniform, instead of a lime one with bobbing antenna and an apron fashioned after a little gray man. Still, he recognized instantly the way the highlights played off her beautiful sable hair and honeyed skin. She was chatting animatedly with the customers at the counter.

Michael made his way through the conversational din and stood in front of the counter, watching her, and waiting. She walked over to him, writing on her pad, as she recorded the order she had just taken. She looked up and smiled. She seemed to freeze a bit and her smile faded as she met his eyes. Her lips parted and her breathing sped up as their gazes locked onto each other. The sudden silence was deafening as all of the patrons faded away into nothingness. They were alone and nothing existed beyond them and this moment.

He held his hand out to her and she placed hers in it without hesitation. Liz walked out from behind the counter, guided by his touch. Light shifted, played out over both of them as she moved from the shadows, into the light. She seemed to stand taller, more confident with each step toward him. She began to transform with every step, becoming more vibrant and even more beautiful. Her gray uniform transformed into a flowing gown of dark blue silk that hugged her curves. He felt a glow begin to spread within him, between them - growing brighter as her smile and the aura of happiness surrounding her also grew.

As she came out from behind the counter Michael lifted his arm and drew it back, pulling her flush against his body. She placed her free hand on his shoulder and he grasped her waist with his. They spun around and the scene shifted, melting away until they stood before a green arbor covered in ivy and honeysuckle. The air was heavy with the musky scent of the fragrant vines mixed with jasmine and other night-blooming flowers. Together they floated through the archway and into a grove. Stars filled the sky, shining down on them.

Liz looked up at him, a broad smile dancing across her face. "I thought you didn't dance."

"I don't dance," he ground out, enunciating every word.

She merely threw her head back and laughed.

The sound quickened within him, further inflaming the arousal he had felt since he first took her into his arms. Instinctively, he brought his hand up from her waist to tangle in the beckoning waves of her hair. Michael pulled her closer, groaning as his engorged member was pressed intimately against her belly. He fused their mouths together, claiming her as his. He was not denied.

red. blue. green.

 

 

 

 

 

**********

Chapter 11

Loud rock music was blaring inside the apartment as Liz made her way to the front door. She knocked, but there was no answer. She didn't think anyone could hear her over the din that obviously meant Michael was here.

She opened the door and walked into the room and straight into Michael's chest. He was pulling a shirt over his head and walking toward the door. "I guess he heard me after all, " she mused as she disentangled herself.

He finished putting on his shirt and drawled flatly - "Make yourself at home."

He walked the rest of the way into the living room and she followed. The place had been transformed. He had obviously cleaned up and white cloths covered the area around a large easel. It was a bit battered, and looked well used, but she had never seen it before. She had never seen any of this before, she realized, as she looked around, taking in the brushes, palettes, pots of paint and stark, white canvases stacked around the room.

Michael waited nervously, trying not to show it, as she took it all in. The art teacher had helped set Michael up with all of this equipment, now that he was actually attending class on a regular basis and showing interest as well as promise.

He had cleaned the apartment this morning. He was so restless when he awoke from his dream that not even an ice cold shower had helped. He knew Liz would be here in a few hours and he needed to get under control before she did. So, he cleaned. He tried to pretend that he wasn't doing it for her and that he didn't care what she thought. He didn't fool himself, though.

He had even run his ancient vacuum cleaner over his even older carpet. His neighbor hadn't liked that and had banged on the wall as Michael ran the noisy machine at 6:30 this morning. He had responded by turning up the stereo, which was till playing at that level. This thought reminded him that he couldn't hear what Liz was saying and he walked over to turn it down.

She looked at him gratefully, and then to the easel and back to him, her forehead furrowed, like she was trying to figure out the solution to a particularly difficult question. "Umm, what do we do now?"

He titled his head to the side and looked her up and down. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a look to imply that she had just suggested the strangest thing ever. "First, you're going to change your clothes. I'm not taking pictures for the yearbook here."

He turned away and walked to the bedroom as she stood there, sputtering in indignation. He smiled to himself as he heard her stamp her foot and then follow him, muttering under her breath. His smile faded, however, as he walked into the room and saw his unmade bed, still rumpled by the latest of his sleepless nights. His mouth went dry, as she stepped up behind him.

"Michael, I've seen your bedroom before, and I don't really care if it's a mess. I just want to get on with this. I'm assuming that you have something you want me to wear. Or did you expect me to go all the way home and then come back? You didn't tell me that there was a dress code."

"Fine," he said and went over to his dresser and started rummaging through his drawers. Finally, he pulled out an old hockey jersey and threw it onto the bed. "Put that on," he said tersely as he pushed past her and left the room.

She picked up the jersey and looked at it. It was well worn, but clean. She imagined that he wore it a lot, but she had never seen him in it. She brought it to her nose and smelled it. It smelled like the laundry detergent she had seen in the kitchen, but she could also smell him. As she lowered the shirt, she realized that she could still smell him, not just on the shirt, but everywhere. His spicy scent seemed to assault her and she realized, belatedly, that she was in his bedroom, standing next to his large bed.

Her fingers were on the buttons of her shirt and she was undressing inches away from his tangled sheets and personal possessions. It felt incredibly intimate, as she stood in his personal sanctuary, naked from the waist up.

She picked up the soft jersey and slipped it over her head. It hung almost to her knees. In a moment of uncharacteristic daring, she kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her jeans, slipping them off as well. She wore only his jersey and her panties. She went out to him, before she could think too much, or change her mind.

Michael was arranging things at his easel, trying to pretend he wasn't waiting for her, but his breath caught in his throat as she walked into the room. All of the blood in his brain seemed to race south, and he stood there entranced by the picture she presented. He moved to stand more fully behind the easel, to hide the evidence of his arousal. He pointed to a chair in front of him that had also been covered in a white cloth, and grunted. "Sit there."

She nodded, confused, but did as he asked and sat in the large armchair. She twisted around, trying to get comfortable. He just stared, waiting; it made her fidget more. He tightened his lips into a sort of frown that she had come to associate with him. She looked at him pointedly. He frowned again and looked away, then back at her. "Your legs - bring them up. Put your feet in the chair."

She did as he said, drawing her knees up against her chest. She carefully lifted the jersey to cover her legs and wrapped her arms around them.

He almost dropped his charcoal, as he watched her comply. He caught a glimpse of her powder blue bikinis, as she lifted the shirt, and thought he would lose it. However, the picture she presented now, covered up, was even more alluring. Her hair was tousled and her skin was flushed, as if she had just come from bed. The large neckline of the shirt was stretched out by her knees and showed a hint of her delicate collarbone and the full swell of her breasts. She was covered from neck to ankle, but there was nothing demure about her, except her eyes. They were startlingly innocent and trusting. He began to sketch.

Two hours later, he had a basic outline and had begun to apply color to the area of the jersey and the background. It was surprisingly easy. She was a subject with which his muse was very familiar. Yet, he was becoming more and more frustrated. He couldn't seem to capture the essence, the feeling that was taunting him, just out of his grasp.

He looked over and her head was once again resting on her knees, her hair falling forward. Her face was hidden from him. He growled and threw down his brush. She looked up, startled at the sudden movement.

Her face became a mask of confusion as he stalked toward her. He reached out and lifted her chin. "Keep your head up. I can't draw it, if I can't see it."

"I'm tired, Michael. I've been sitting here, forever...."

Her words trailed off as he ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. The tip of her tongue flitted out to wet it, as her mouth suddenly felt so dry. It grazed across the tip of his thumb in the process.

His eyes darkened and he leaned in, kissing her before either of them knew what was happening. They barely moved, and he couldn't tell if the kiss had lasted a moment, or an eternity before he pulled away.

Neither said anything. He stared at her. Liz blinked and he drew back his hand as if scalded. "Close your mouth, Parker," was all he said to her, as he turned and walked back to the easel, cursing himself, silently, the whole way.

Her hair was even more tangled. Her eyes were dark and smoky. Her lips were damp and slightly swollen and her breasts rose and fell in quick, deep breaths. He caught it all on his canvas.

As he brought the brush to the canvas, the color drained from his face. That ephemeral quality he couldn't capture before, his dreams, that kiss... He was painting his heart. He had fallen in love with Liz Parker.

The colors swirled in front of his eyes.

 

**********

Chapter 12

He continued to work until dusk started to fall and the light began to fade in the apartment, he was squinting at the canvas, applying detail to her lips, when he felt her come up beside him. She didn't step around the easel, instinctively understanding that he wasn't ready for her to see the portrait yet. Instead, she reached out and placed her hand on his. "Michael, it's getting dark. We can do more, later. Let's take a break." Her stomach rumbled and she grinned sheepishly.

"Why don't you clean up, and I'll order a pizza. Ok?"

He nodded and put down the brush. He grabbed a rag, complying, but still too lost in his thoughts to reply. He went to the kitchen to wash up, and she went to the bedroom to change back into her clothes.

She stood at the foot of his bed again and removed the jersey. She held it in her hands and stared at it for a moment, then hugged it to her chest. She took a deep breath and this time, as her senses filled with Michael, she remembered their kiss. She had thought about it all afternoon, but still couldn't make sense of it. Her heart raced and she licked her lips as she recalled Michael's lips against hers, so soft, yet demanding. His tongue had grazed her teeth demanding entrance, and she had granted it, sucking him in. it had ended almost as quickly as it began, but even as she stood there, she could feel the moisture gathering against the cotton of her panties. "What did it mean?" she wondered as she quickly got dressed.

Michael had begun to put away his supplies when she returned to the living room. She went to the kitchen and called for pizza, giving him some space. It was only after he was done and the painting covered, that she joined him.

They were arguing over what movie to watch when they heard the knock at the door. She went to grab her purse, but he beat her to the door and paid for the pizza, despite her protests. Finally, she looked at him, curious, and realized that she was being rude. She gracefully told him, "Thank you."

They grabbed a couple of sodas and settled in the living room to eat and watch the movie. Suddenly, she jumped up and went to the kitchen. When she returned, she brought him the bottle of Tabasco. He took it and began shaking it over his pizza. Then he paused, still holding the bottle, and cocked his head to the side. He mumbled a thank you and she just smiled, grabbing her own slice.

They relaxed, but didn't talk, except to tease each other about various parts of the movie they had to have seen about a hundred times. It wasn't until the credits started to roll that she realized she was sitting back against his chest and his hand was on top of hers on her full belly. They were laughing when she titled her head back to look up at him. His eyes darkened and her lips parted.

Suddenly, Michael jumped up, dislodging her and grabbed their glasses as he headed for the kitchen.

Liz stood up, confused, trying to figure out what had just happened. She walked toward the kitchen and saw Michael standing at the sink, looking out the window, with the water running.

"Michael?" she called to him.

He gripped the counter tightly where he stood.

She could feel her pulse beat in her throat. "Good night," she said quietly and turned away. She gathered her purse and left.

He continued to stare out at the stars long after she was gone.

 

**********

Chapter 13

Liz would have cried herself to sleep that night if she thought it would have helped. She felt confused and overwrought. She couldn't seem to make heads or tails out of what had happened that day.

She thought of calling Maria, but didn't know what to say. She was also pretty sure that she didn't want to discuss the fact that she had kissed Michael, and had almost kissed him again, with his ex-girlfriend.

She had tried to write in her journal, but couldn't find the words. Somewhere, she understood that she wouldn't work this out logically, at least not until she understood her feelings about the situation. Except, that was the situation - wasn't it? - her feelings.

She had ended up rereading her journal instead - every confession since that September day that Max had saved her life and her world had changed forever. She felt as if she were on a similar precipice now. She faded off to sleep with he journal clutched tightly, to her chest. Then she dreamt.

Tonight, she stood once again on the empty plane, but the colors had changed, just as they had in her own life. Now, she stood, bathed not in a cool white light, but in dim gray. Instead of just her and a black area to her side, she had darkness on both sides, as if she stood in the center of a dimly lit stage. Yet, she stood immobile, only able to look from side to side.

The lights slowly came up, like the sun rising behind her, and she saw Max to her left and Michael to her right. She didn't know what to do.

She looked over at Max and the scene from the Crashdown, the day she was shot, played through her mind. She had been serving them both, feeling the attraction Max had for her, almost too shy to respond. She was frustrated with the customers. There was a fight. She was shot. Max's hand was on her belly as she almost died. She met his eyes and was alive. He had saved her.

She turned to Michael and saw the scene where he had returned her journal. It was the first time that she had really looked at him. He told her that whoever read her journal would know her. His parting words still resonated with her. "Thank you for giving me one more reason to envy Max Evans."

She looked back at Max. She recalled the feelings he aroused in her. She remembered their first kiss, their second, the flashes, and her fantasies. She remembered how he pushed her away, yet held her close. She felt her own desire to feel needed, his need to feel human.

She looked at Michael again. She remembered her need to help him, despite Max's protests. She recalled the first time she had gone to his house and seen what his life was really like. From the start, there was a connection she had felt with him, despite their differences. Maria kept trying to make him into something he was not.

Max had done the same to her. He had kissed Tess. He had betrayed her. He had followed his destiny. She had run away, trying to let go, to grow up.

Michael. Destiny. Why was it different with him? They had both been made with their futures shaped by their pasts. Why did Max's fill her with disappointment, while Michael's did not? It was because she loved Max, of course. Right? Didn't she?

"No," she realized sadly, "not any more." Max was her past, a schoolgirl fantasy, based on what she thought they had, what she thought she wanted.

So what was the difference? They were. Max was the man who needed to be King. While Michael needed to belong, Max needed to be the one they belonged to. Even if Isabel had been like Tess, Michael would have resisted. He made his own destiny. Even though he pushed to find out who he was, and where he came from, he would be his own man, and stand up for his beliefs.

She had a security with Michael that she had never known with Max. Michael may be the more unpredictable of the two, but he was also the more honest. He wouldn't deceive her, not even if he thought that he knew better than she did. He expected her to make her own choices, and her own mistakes. It was only when she followed Max blindly that he had ever really been angry with her.

The light shifted, as she realized this. The sun began to set to her left. The light faded, and even the stars were barely visible. Max faded into the darkness and she turned away.

The darker it became behind her, the brighter it seemed to be in front of her. If that was dusk, then this was dawn. The pale pink of sunrise lit the horizon and Michael looked back at her.

She stepped over the line that was no longer there and found herself in his arms. She held onto him and reached up to kiss him. Her world exploded in color.

She was in love with Michael.

*********

Chapter 14

Michael didn't know how long he had stood there after she left, but it was long enough that he no longer felt overwhelmed by the urge to chase after her and bury himself in her arms. As soon as he was able to take a deep breath, he pushed away from the counter and went back to his easel. He gathered his, still damp, brushes and resumed painting. It was a different sight from a few hours previous. There was a frantic edge to his movements - controlled fury, or harnessed passion.

He had to finish this painting. He wasn't sure that he could take another day like this without losing control. He didn't need her to model any longer. Her image was burned into his brain and etched onto the canvas already. His muse was intimately acquainted with the subject. Liz had been his obsession for months.

He worked through the night, needing to finish, to find the end of this piece. He struggled with himself and with his heart. He refused to stop until he was finished, or to surrender to the siren call of sleep. His dreams, he knew, would only bring more of her to haunt him.

When he finally finished, the sky was already lightening, and his hand ached from holding a brush all day and night. His body was so exhausted that he could barely feel it, or anything at all. Yet, it was all worth it.

The finished painting was his best work yet. He had finally managed to capture the mystery that he was seeking. It was in the small crease at the side of her mouth when she smiled. The sable length of her hair that she sometimes hid behind was like a curtain on the world. Mostly, what enthralled him were her eyes. Everything she felt was in their depths, even the hurt and loneliness that she tried to hide.

Everything that Liz Parker was, he had laid bare on his canvas. At that moment, he realized the futility of his goal. He had not exorcised her from his mind; he had let her possess his heart. He couldn't fight it, any more than his exhausted body could continue to fight sleep. He surrendered to both.

*********

Chapter 15

 

It was only a short reprieve, as he was awakened a few hours later, by someone pounding on his front door. He roused himself to go answer it, only to find, once again, that his guest and taken it upon himself to enter.

"I've got to do something about the security in this place," he mumbled to himself, as he rubbed his hand over his face, and tried to wake up. "What do you want, Max? It's to early in the morning for the world to be ending. Come back later."

"It's eleven thirty, Michael," Max answered reprovingly.

"Like I said, too damn early. I had a late night."

At that, Ma looked around and seemed to take stock of his surroundings. "You were painting?"

Michael just sighed and looked at him expectantly.

Max didn't take the hint to tell Michael why he was there, and instead, began moving toward the painting. "Are you having visions again? You didn't mention them. You need to let us know if something is going on, so that we can figure out if it is important."

Michael moved between Max and the easel, clenching his jaw at Max's condescending comments. "It's not like that, ok. It's not alien related; it's personal." Michael rubbed his fingers back and forth across his forehead, trying to ease the tension building there.

Max wasn't deterred. He practically pushed Michael out of the way, to see the painting.

Michael was reminded of those cartoons he had watched as a child on Hank's old black and white television. The silence in the room seemed dramatic in its strength and Michael imagined he could see the color draining from Max's face, right before he exploded.

"What the hell is this! Why do you have a painting of Liz? And why does she look… like that?" He gestured toward the canvas in disgust and anger, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. "What the hell were you thinking?" Max continued to berate him. "What if someone else saw this? Liz would not be happy to know that you were invading her privacy like this. Of all the …"

"She knows."

"What?"

"She sat for it."

"She… What the hell have you been doing with my girlfriend?"

"Hate to break it to you, but she's not your girlfriend, Max." He refused to justify himself to Max. His highness wasn't interested in an explanation. Michael's painting didn't fit in with Max's vision of his world.

Years of practice allowed him to sidestep the punch that Max threw, but it was close. He had hesitated briefly, almost willing to accept the pain for his sins. A glimpse of the painting convinced him otherwise, back up almost immediately with that image made flesh.

Liz was standing in the doorway, and she was not happy.

 

*********

Chapter 16

His painting didn't do her justice. He didn't know how much she had heard of Max's tirade before she opened the door, but she was obviously mad as hell. She had never looked more beautiful.

Max had stumbled when his punch failed to connect, but he recovered himself and turned on Liz.

Michael started to speak, but she quelled him with a look. He pursed his lips and nodded.

Meanwhile, Max had drawn himself up into his kingly posture, or as Michael called it, 'Max with a stick up his ass,' and began yelling at Liz.

She didn't back down, as she had so many times before, she stepped right up to him. "I'm going to say this once, Max, and you should listen carefully - 'It's none of your business.'"

Max almost choked at her words. "How can you say that? I think it is very much my business if the woman I love is cavorting around half-naked and looking like…" He gestured toward the painting, his expression indicating that he thought it was obscene, "Like that."

"First of all, Max, I am not your girlfriend; I am not your anything. You have no right to tell me what to do. And as for that, " she waved her hand toward the painting which she had come around to see, "I think it's beautiful. I love it."

She took a deep breath, "And I love the man who painted it."

Max's surprised exclamation was followed by Michael's almost as astonished response. They both yelled, "What?"

Liz met Michael's eyes, barely, and tried to breath around the pounding in her chest. "I'm sorry. I know…" She shrugged, and then continued softly, "I love you."

He held her gaze and answered, simply, "I love you, too."

Max's head spun around so fast, that he almost injured himself. He was sputtering in indignation, but neither of them was listening any more. He was determined to be heard. This could not be happening. He stepped forward and grabbed Liz's arm, trying to pull her attention back to himself. It was only after the fact, as he met Liz's icy glare and heard Michael growl behind him that he realized that this was not the best approach.

He let go, but didn't back down. "You can't do this, Liz. I love you; we're soulmates!"

Her eyes were sad, as she shook her head. "I'm sorry."

Max looked back and forth at Michael and Liz, and the stormed out of the apartment.

Michael and Liz barely noticed him go, as they stared at each other. As one, they moved together and he took her into his arms.

red. gold. green.

~ Author's Note: The end for those who wish to fade to black. Chapter 17 contains gratuitous sexual content. Proceed at your own discretion. ~

 

*********

Chapter 17

Michael wasn't a poet. He was an artist; he thought in color. Maybe that was why he remembered once hearing an old version of Snow White, not the Disney happily-ever-after crap, but the real story. The queen wished for this perfect, beautiful daughter. She had skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood and hair as black as ebony. It was all wrong. His beauty had hair of the deepest sable, skin that was more tan than milk white, and lips that reminded him of rose petals. Each of those things was insignificant to the feature that truly made her beautiful, her eyes. Right now, they were gazing at him with an emotion that he thought that he would never see - love. It overwhelmed him.

He leaned down to meet her with a kiss - just as she yawned. She covered her mouth and looked sheepish, as she yawned again. "Jeez, Parker, you sure know how to encourage a guy." He laughed lightly and took her hand in his. "Looks like I'm not the only one who didn't get enough sleep. Come on." He began pulling her toward his room. He was mildly surprised to realize that she was following without protest.

She waited patiently, as he straightened the sheets and grabbed a pillow for her. Then, she slid into his bed, like she belonged there. He lay down next to her, and she rolled toward him and snuggled her head against his chest. He stroked her hair. She lifted her head to look at him, and he leaned forward, recovering their aborted kiss.

He had the best of intentions. He was sure that they both did. However, as their lips met, one kiss turned into two, and then three, and tongues dueling wildly, and short gasps of breath. Her hands slid under his t-shirt and along his chest. He returned the favor, reveling in the feel of her soft skin. Soon both of their shirts were gone and her chest was pressed intimately against his own.

He had to see her, and so he gently rolled her over to lie beside him then leaned up on his elbow. Tentatively, he reached forward and placed his hand on her stomach. He drank in the sight of her. Her skin was sun-kissed, like the desert itself, which had been his home for 50-some years. Now, she was his home. This was where she belonged, and so did he. He looked into her eyes, seeking permission, and found it, with a smile.

Slowly, he reached up and cupped her breast, caressing it. He drew his thumb over her nipple and watched it tighten and peak. She was small, but beautiful, and the noises she made seemed to travel straight to his groin. He could feel himself throbbing against the confines of his sweatpants, as he leaned down and took her other nipple into his mouth.

Michael suckled her, and she arched toward him, her hands grabbing for purchase along his arms. He drew back to look at her again, and placed an almost chaste kiss on her lips. Then, he leaned back in kissed gently down her neck, along the hollow of her collarbone, through the valley between her breasts, as if he were paying homage to her beauty.

As he nuzzled and kissed her chest, he moved closer. His aching erection came into contact with her leg, and it was his turn to moan. Liz answered by tightening her grip on his arm and rubbing her leg against him. He rolled onto her, bracing himself over her, and returned the favor. He straddled her leg, and she rode his, as they pushed against each other, seeking relief. There was none to be found. Instead, each movement sent them spiraling higher.

Michael leaned back and reached for her hips. He pulled them up against him and arched into the contact. Her fingers scrambled for the button of her jeans, and then they were loose. He slid his hands down and pulled them away.

Impatiently, Liz tugged at his sweatpants, as well. He hissed in pleasure as they were pulled away, freeing him from their confines; he wore nothing beneath them. Liz wrapped her legs around his hips and drew him close. Only the thin barrier of her panties stood between them, and they were barely a deterrent, almost transparent with the moisture of her arousal.

Experimentally, he moved his hips, thrusting against her juncture. He could feel her swollen folds and welcoming heat. It was almost too much. He froze and pulled her up into a kiss.

Liz clung to him. He wrapped one hand in her hair, and the other arm against the small of her back. He held her tightly and kissed her with everything that he had, pouring his heart into the moment. He was even more surprised than she, when the flashes started. It felt like sticking his finger into a socket and being turned inside out, but knowing that was exactly how it should be.

The air coalesced around them, tinged with deep purples, vibrant reds and royal blues. Their auras expanded around them, until they met and blended in a brilliant gold haze. Together, they saw each other's dreams made reality and knew this was shared between them. The didn't question the moment, so in tune with each other, that there were no questions left, nothing at all beyond them.

They were suspended in a dream made flesh, and their bodies craved completion. He moved his hand between them, and found the source of her pleasure. He caressed her until she melted, and they rode her waves together, surfing on a sea of brilliant color.

Their bodies were slick with sweat and their hair clung damply to their faces. Michael brushed hers back and Liz did the same for him, sharing a smile that stirred his soul. So caught up in the moment, he barely registered the meaning as she removed her panties and reached for him. He cried out and clenched his jaw tightly as her small hand wrapped around his manhood.

She guided him home.

It took all of his will not to thrust blindly and surge into her welcoming heat. She wasn't as patient, and soon he was tearing past the barrier of her innocence. She pushed against him, crying out her love for him. They moved as one - reds into blues, indigo into mauve, canary and aubergine and purest white.

It was like touching heaven and finding his personal angel. It couldn't last. Luckily, she wasn't far behind, and she tumbled over the edge on the waves of his own pleasure.

Afterwards, he barely retained the presence of mind and energy to roll to the side, rather than collapse on top of her. He pulled her close and she listened to the staccato beat of his heart. It seems to match her own.

He touched her softly, lovingly caressing her. "Did I hurt you?"

"Never. I love you."

"I love you, too."

"I know." Liz smiled and kissed his chest, just above his heart.

Together they drifted of to sleep, but their dreams had already come true.

vermilion. plum. gold.

The End.

  
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